


The Devil and Nero Wolfe

by Heisey



Series: 1950s AU [1]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Blind Character, Blindness, Case Fic, F/M, Gen, Investigations, Murder Mystery, Period-Typical Sexism, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:41:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22474282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heisey/pseuds/Heisey
Summary: Now for something completely different. Some time ago, it occurred to me that a famous fictional detective lived in Hell’s Kitchen, in a brownstone on West 35th Street near the Hudson River. I wondered what might happen if Nero Wolfe met Daredevil. This story is the result. It takes place in a 1950s AU and is written in the style of the Nero Wolfe books, a first-person narrative by Wolfe’s confidential assistant, Archie Goodwin.
Relationships: Archie Goodwin & Nero Wolfe, Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson & Karen Page, Matt Murdock/Elektra Natchios, Matt Murdock/Karen Page
Series: 1950s AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147805
Comments: 32
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the characters have views on women, disability, and other topics that are consistent with the time period or the Nero Wolfe canon or both, and they express their views in language typical of the period. Their views are not my views.

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best idea I ever had. When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms on the roof at precisely 6 p.m. on that raw, cloudy March day, settled into the chair custom made for his seventh of a ton, and rang for beer, the first thing he saw was that day’s edition of the _Daily Bugle_ on the desk in front of him. Even by the _Bugle’_ s blatantly low standards, this one was a doozy. The front page headline blared, **“WHITE SLAVERY RING ARRESTS!”** above a photo of a well-endowed, half-dressed young woman.

Wolfe raised his eyes and glared at me. “What is this?” he demanded, his mouth twisting in distaste.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, saving me from having to think of a snappy comeback. I made my way down the front hall and looked through the one-way glass next to the door. On the stoop was Wolfe’s six o’clock appointment: J. Jonah Jameson, publisher of the _Daily Bugle._ I slid back the chain bolt and opened the door to admit him.

As I took his hat and coat, he said, “You’re Archie Goodwin.” There was no point in denying it, so I admitted it. Jameson needed no introduction. His picture appeared frequently in his own newspaper, and others. With his toothbrush mustache, brush-cut hair, and ever-present cigar, he was immediately recognizable.

“This way,” I said, starting down the hall to the office. I opened the office door to let him enter and followed him. “Mr. Jameson,” I announced. 

Jameson went straight to the red leather chair and sat. He didn’t offer to shake hands, apparently aware of Wolfe’s aversion to the custom. He glanced to his right and put his stogie – unlit, thank God – in the crystal ash tray on the little table next to the chair. The table was conveniently placed for check writing, if that became necessary. A short phone call to our bank, after Jameson’s secretary called to make the appointment, had confirmed he could pay the freight, even if Wolfe decided to soak him. With tax day looming in less than ten days, that was highly likely.

As Jameson took his seat, Fritz Brenner, chef _extraordinaire_ and majordomo of the household, arrived with the beer delivery. Wolfe opened the bottle with his solid gold opener, added the cap to the collection in his desk drawer, and poured beer. While he waited for the foam to reach the optimum level, he turned to Jameson and asked, “I’m having beer. Would you care to join me?” 

“What? No,” Jameson barked. “This isn’t a social call. This is serious business.”

That was just bad manners. Jameson didn’t know it, but he already had one strike against him. 

Wolfe frowned.“Get down to it, then,” he said, with a slight wave of his hand. Fritz returned to the kitchen.

“Are you familiar with the vigilante known as Daredevil, or the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?” Jameson asked.

“Familiar, no,” Wolfe replied, “but I have heard of him, of course.” Seeing the foam in his glass had reached precisely the correct level, he picked up the glass and drank.

“Then you probably are aware he has been active in Hell’s Kitchen for the better part of six years, with occasional interruptions,” Jameson said. “Yet his identity has remained a closely-held secret, presumably known to only a few close associates. I want you to expose him.”

“To what end, Mr. Jameson?”

“Why, public safety, law and order, of course. The man’s a menace, a criminal.”

“Then isn’t it a job for the police?”

Jameson scoffed. “The police? Those who aren’t corrupt are incompetent. Surely you know that. If they were capable of exposing Daredevil, they would have done it by now. And I have it on good authority that some officers even applaud what he does. It makes their job easier, after all.”

Wolfe twisted his lips. “And if I were to discover his identity, what do you propose to do with that information?”

“Publish it in the _Bugle_ , of course. It would be the scoop of the year, maybe the decade.” Jameson smiled. “Can you imagine how many newspapers I’d sell?”

“I leave that to you,” Wolfe replied dryly. He picked up the newspaper from his desk, then put it down, face down, before he stood and addressed Jameson. “I’ll consider the job. I will communicate my decision in due course. Good day, sir.” He turned and walked out.

Jameson jumped to his feet. “What?” he exclaimed. “You can’t – ” he said, but he was talking to a closed door. Having no other target, he turned to me. “Get him back in here,” he ordered.

I held out my hands. “Sorry,” I said, “I don’t work for you, I work for Mr. Wolfe.”

Jameson was turning an interesting shade of red. “But, but,” he stammered, “Wolfe is the only one who can do this. The police are useless. I’ve hired other investigators, but they wasted my time and money. I need Wolfe.”

I was tempted to tell him, “Well, he doesn’t need you, bub,” but I held my tongue. The man was still a potential client, after all. I crossed the room to the hallway door and held it open. It took a full minute, but Jameson finally moved. Giving me a venomous look, he marched out of the office and down the hall, not waiting for me to help him with his coat. The door slammed behind him. I made sure it was locked before returning to my desk.

  
The next morning, I breakfasted in the kitchen as usual, on eggs _au beurre noir_ with Canadian bacon and freshly-baked croissants. Wolfe had breakfast in his room, from a tray brought up by Fritz. Shortly before Wolfe left for his two morning hours in the orchid rooms, I buzzed him to confirm he had no new errands for me. He didn’t, so I finished my second cup of coffee, thanked Fritz for the meal, and told him I’d be back in time for lunch. At the front door, I grabbed my coat and hat from the rack, put them on, and stepped out onto the stoop, pulling the door shut behind me. 

In case you haven’t already guessed it, my name is Archie Goodwin, and I’m a licensed private investigator employed by Nero Wolfe. My official title is Wolfe’s “confidential assistant,” but that covers a lot of territory. Wolfe never (well, almost never) leaves his house on business, so my job is to round up the people and things he needs to work his genius on. In other words, I do the legwork, and Wolfe does the brain work, when I can get him to work at all. In fact, the last part – badgering Wolfe into working – is the most important part of my job. I also double as his secretary and bookkeeper and supply the necessary muscle to deal with, and sometimes eject, unruly clients and visitors. I have my own room with my own furniture, bought and paid for by me, on the third floor of the brownstone owned and occupied by Wolfe. The rest of the household consists of Fritz, whom you have already met, and Theodore Horstmann, the orchid nurse who tends to the 10,000 plants in the rooftop greenhouse. It’s an arrangement that suits me, especially considering that I get to enjoy Fritz’s cuisine three times a day.

Yesterday’s clouds had been replaced by clear skies, so I decided to walk across town to the offices of the _New York Gazette_. Lon Cohen was expecting me. I’d called him yesterday to ask for the low-down on the two lawyers who had an appointment to see Wolfe this evening at six. Lon knows everything worth knowing about anyone. Sometimes he knows things about people that even they don’t know about themselves. 

As I walked, I mulled over the job Jameson wanted to hire Wolfe for. Jameson claimed to want to expose Daredevil for “public safety” and “law and order,” but I was pretty damn sure his only interest was in selling newspapers. And to be honest, I didn’t like the man. So I wasn’t totally on board with the idea of exposing Daredevil for him. I hadn’t even tried to goad Wolfe into taking the case. I’d heard people talking about Daredevil and how he’d helped people they knew. It seemed to me the only people he hurt were the criminals he beat up and delivered to the cops, usually the worse for wear. Sure, vigilante justice was illegal, but I could think of a few times Wolfe and I had resorted to stratagems that weren’t strictly legal, either. If Wolfe turned down the job, I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. 

When I arrived at Lon’s office, two doors down from the publisher’s, we spent a few minutes discussing last week’s poker game before getting down to brass tacks. I left after an hour, feeling confident I knew everything there was to know about a couple of lawyers named Franklin Nelson and Matthew Murdock.

I made it back to the old brownstone a little before eleven and was already at my desk when I heard Wolfe’s elevator descending from the plant rooms. He went to his desk and sat, then wished me a good morning. I reciprocated. “You saw Mr. Cohen, I presume?” he asked. I confirmed it. “Report,” he ordered, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.

I flipped open my notebook and began. “Franklin Nelson and Matthew Murdock, both born and raised in Hell’s Kitchen, but didn’t meet until they were in college at Columbia. Nelson is from a large family, mostly small businessmen. His father owns a combination butcher shop and delicatessen. An uncle owns a hardware store. Franklin, known as ‘Foggy’ – ” Wolfe made a face at the nickname. “ – was the first in the family to attend college, which he did on scholarships. Graduated from Columbia in ’42 and immediately enlisted. Shipped out to North Africa in ’43 and saw action in Italy. Wounded at Monte Cassino, but not too seriously. Was able to rejoin his unit in Rome. Awarded a Purple Heart. Received a battlefield commission and was honorably discharged in ’45 as a First Lieutenant. 

“Murdock is a different story. First thing you need to know about him is he’s blind.”

Wolfe gave me a surprised look. “Blind?” he asked. 

“As a bat,” I confirmed.

Wolfe shook an admonitory finger at me. “Archie.” Then he waved his hand a fraction of an inch. “Continue.”

“He lost his sight in an accident at the age of nine. According to Lon, he pushed an old man out of the path of an oncoming truck. He saved the old man, but the truck rolled over and spilled the chemicals it was carrying. The chemicals got into the boy’s eyes and blinded him.

“Murdock was raised by his father, a journeyman boxer known as ‘Battlin’ Jack’ Murdock. Apparently he was paid to lose fights as often as he was paid to win them. The mother wasn’t in the picture. About a year after his son was blinded, Jack was murdered. The case was never solved, but Lon’s sources say he was killed because he didn’t lose a fight like he was supposed to. After Jack’s death, the boy was raised by the nuns at the St. Agnes Orphanage until he left to go to college.

“He graduated from Columbia in ’42. He couldn’t serve, of course, so he went to work for Stark Industries, the weapons manufacturer. In ’43, he left Stark Industries and took a job at the Valley Forge Army Hospital in Pennsylvania, working with soldiers who were blinded in the war. After the war ended, he returned to New York, and he and Nelson enrolled in law school at Columbia. Murdock graduated at the top of their class, Nelson near the top. 

“They hung out their shingle in Hell’s Kitchen and practiced as Nelson & Murdock for a couple of years. Then they had some kind of falling-out and dissolved their partnership. Lon doesn’t know why. But apparently they patched things up, because they re-formed their partnership about three years ago. The firm is small-time: landlord-tenant problems, some personal injury, some criminal defense, small business disputes, that kind of thing. But they have been involved in a few big cases. They defended the so-called ‘Punisher,’ that crazy mass murderer who terrified the city a few years ago. No other lawyers would touch the case, but they were able to convince the jury to send him to the loony bin instead of death row. While they were practicing separately, Murdock won a big case for a kid who was paralyzed in a subway accident. Nelson has gained a reputation for representing so-called ‘superheroes’ like the Negro boss in Harlem, Luke Cage, and Jessica Jones, the female private eye. The firm has also been known to work with Daredevil. Nelson is married, as of two years ago, to a lady lawyer, the former Marci Stahl, on a partnership track at Landman & Zack.

“That’s the crop,” I concluded.

Wolfe let out a bushel of air all at once. “Satisfactory,” he declared.

  
When the doorbell rang at 6:02 that evening, and I went to the door, I didn’t see what I was expecting to see through the one-way glass. Along with the two lawyers on the stoop, there were two females, a blonde and a brunette. I opened the door and invited them all in. 

As I took our guests’ coats and hats and hung them on the coat rack, it was obvious which lawyer was Murdock. He was the one with the red-tinted dark glasses and white cane. He was about my height, with a mop of dark brown hair that took on a reddish hue when the light hit it. His dark gray suit was nothing special, just some pieces of cloth sewn together. It looked like something a blind man would wear.

There was something unexpected about Murdock. It wasn’t his blindness. That was expected. But when he turned his back to me while taking off his coat, I noticed how his suit jacket stretched over his back, a very well-muscled back. I don’t have much experience with the blind, none really, but a blind man with muscles like that struck me as, well, unusual. Then, before he started down the hall to the office, he paused for a moment and tilted his head. It reminded me of my uncle’s hunting dogs, back in Ohio, when they were trying to pick up a scent. I didn’t know what Murdock was doing, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t that. When he took hold of the brunette’s arm and began walking toward the office, I got a very definite impression that he somehow knew where he was going, even though he’d never set foot in the brownstone before. When he arrived at the door to the office, he did the head tilt again, before entering. Then he moved into the office with a confident step that seemed unusual for a blind man, almost as if he didn’t need his sighted guide. My mother had always told me to help the handicapped, but he didn’t look or act like someone who needed help. 

There was nothing surprising about Nelson, except for the beautifully-made blue pinstripe suit that draped his frame. I would have been happy to make room for one like it in my own closet. He’d put on a few pounds since his Army days, but in that suit, they were well camouflaged. His light brown hair was slicked back from a high forehead. Brown eyes radiated sincerity and intelligence. All in all, someone you could take your legal problems to and be confident he would find a solution.

Wolfe scowled when he saw the two women enter the office. Too bad. He would just have to take it. As far as I was concerned, it was no hardship. Both of them were lookers. I sat at my desk and observed the brunette as she guided Murdock into the office. She had an exotic look to her: Mediterranean or Eurasian, maybe. Under her red pillbox hat, her dark brown, almost black hair flowed loose, brushing her shoulders. She was dressed in a black ensemble with crimson piping that I was almost certain was a Dior. An original, not a copy bought off the rack at Macy’s. It reminded me of an outfit I’d seen Lily Rowan wearing recently. This was encouraging. If she was the lawyers’ client, she could probably pay Wolfe’s fee. As she passed by me, I shivered involuntarily. I couldn’t put it into words, but there was something unsettling about her.

I wouldn’t say the same about the blonde, introduced by Nelson as “Miss Karen Page, our legal secretary.” Tall, almost as tall as the two lawyers, and dressed in a simple skirt and sweater set, definitely not by Dior, at first glance she exuded all-American wholesomeness. But that was only on the surface. The look in her eyes, and the way she carried herself, both told me she was no innocent. She knew the score. Whether that was from working in a law office in a rough neighborhood or something else, I didn’t know. She would bear watching, too.

The brunette, whom Murdock introduced as “Miss Elektra Natchios,” sat in the red leather chair, with the lawyers in yellow chairs on either side of her. Miss Page took a seat in another yellow chair next to Nelson. Wolfe rearranged his seventh of a ton in his chair and rang for Fritz. “I’m having beer,” he told the group, gesturing to the half-empty glass in front of him. “May I offer you refreshments?”

Fritz arrived to take the drink orders: cognac for Miss Natchios, Irish whiskey for Nelson and Miss Page, beer for Murdock. Wolfe gave me a surprised look when Murdock requested a Remmers. Apparently the lawyers had done their homework, if they knew the brand of beer Wolfe preferred.

After the drinks were delivered, including a second bottle of beer for Wolfe, he poured and waited for the foam to reach its proper level before drinking. Then he asked, “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

Murdock drank beer and licked the foam from his lips before answering. Of course he couldn’t see that the foam in his glass was still too high. “Miss Natchios is the adopted daughter and sole heir of Hugo Kostas Natchios. He made his fortune in shipping before the war. After the Axis occupied Greece in 1941, he represented the Greek government in exile here in New York. Miss Natchios attended Barnard College during the war. Foggy and I made her acquaintance while we were at Columbia.”

OK, that explained how a small-time law firm managed to snag a client with big bucks.

“Mr. Natchios returned to Greece after the war but was killed in the civil war there. Miss Natchios’s inheritance includes real estate holdings here in the city, specifically, in Hell’s Kitchen. They are mostly apartment buildings, which as you surely know are very desirable properties, given the housing shortage since the war.”

Wolfe gave an audible sigh and waved his hand slightly, as if to say “get on with it,” apparently forgetting the gesture would be lost on Murdock.

“In recent weeks,” Murdock continued, “Miss Natchios and her tenants have been subjected to what appears to be a campaign of harassment. Men have entered people’s apartments, claiming to be sent by her to do repairs – they weren’t – and proceeding to smash up the apartments. Miss Natchios will of course foot the bill for the repairs, but that’s not the problem.”

As the lawyer talked, I noticed other things about him which didn’t fit: a fading but fairly recent bruise on his left cheekbone and the scar left by a nasty cut – bad enough to need stitches – on his forehead. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once. And then there were his knuckles: rough, calloused, and scarred. I knew of only one reason a man’s knuckles would look like that. I wasn’t the only one who noticed; Wolfe was eyeballing Murdock closely, too.

“These incidents were followed by letters – anonymous, of course – demanding that she sell her properties to something called VWF, Incorporated, or face unspecified consequences. She ignored them. But two nights ago, a bomb exploded at one of her buildings. Fortunately, it was being renovated and was unoccupied. Miss Natchios is concerned – rightly so, in my opinion – that the next attack will be on an occupied building.”

“You’ve notified the police?” Wolfe asked.

“Yes, of course,” Murdock replied. “But Miss Natchios has no confidence they will find the culprits. I agree.”

“Indeed,” Wolfe observed. He turned to the woman in the red leather chair. “Miss Natchios. Have you considered selling the properties?”

“No,” she declared. “They are my inheritance. I won’t be bullied into selling them.”

“Very well,” Wolfe replied. “What is it you think I can do?”

Murdock answered for her. “We have been unable to identify the persons behind the entity known as VWF, Incorporated. We want you to identify them and make them stop the harassment.”

Wolfe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Several minutes passed. Nelson and Miss Page exchanged puzzled looks but said nothing. Finally, Wolfe opened his eyes and sighed deeply. “A difficult task, but not impossible. I’ll undertake it,” he said. “My fee will depend on the results obtained.”

“Will a retainer of $10,000 be sufficient?” Miss Natchios asked, reaching into her bag and pulling out a checkbook and pen. The amount drew an audible gasp from Miss Page. Wolfe merely nodded. Miss Natchios wrote the check, then tore it off and stood to hand it to Wolfe. He took the check, glanced at it, and let it fall to the desktop. After a moment, he got to his feet and gave her a curt nod, then addressed the two lawyers, “Mr. Murdock, Mr. Nelson, I assume you have assembled some information on VWF, Incorporated.” Murdock nodded. “Mr. Goodwin will need everything you have.” Wolfe turned and walked out, leaving surprised expressions on four faces.

“Don’t worry, folks,” I assured them. “He’s like that. Now spill.”

They finished giving me the rundown and left a few minutes before it was time for me to join Wolfe at the dinner table. I found him in the kitchen, debating the merits of bay leaf with Fritz for the umpteenth time. It never changed: Fritz was for, Wolfe was against. They broke it off when I walked in. 

“Ah, Archie,” Wolfe said, “they’ve gone?” I told him they had. “Satisfactory. Before we dine, please call Saul Panzer and ask him if he can be here at nine this evening.” I reminded Wolfe I was taking Lily Rowan to the Flamingo after dinner. “You may go,” he said, “I’ll see Saul myself.”

If you haven’t already met him, allow me to introduce Saul Panzer. Don’t be fooled by his small stature, big ears, and the faded cloth cap he insists on wearing. He’s the best operative, bar none, in the city. He is Wolfe’s first choice for jobs when I’m not available, and for errands Wolfe doesn’t want me to know about. When he keeps me in the dark about what Saul is doing, it’s almost always something dodgy that he knows I wouldn’t approve of. Apparently this was one of those times, but I had no idea what he was up to.

I spent most of dinner trying to puzzle out what Wolfe had planned for Saul. I barely tasted Fritz’s leek and potato soup, the poached salmon with dill sauce, or the apricot tarts. And I tuned out while Wolfe held forth on Edward R. Murrow’s broadcast of a few days ago, slamming Senator Joe McCarthy. By the time I finished my coffee, I was no closer to an answer. I pushed my chair away from the table and took my leave, hoping that a few turns on the Flamingo’s dance floor with Miss Rowan would take my mind off the problem.

  
In the morning, I had just sat down at the little table in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I traversed the hall and saw Saul Panzer through the one-way glass. I opened the door and told him, “Sorry, bud, we’re not buying.”

“Good thing I’m not selling, then,” he retorted, pushing his way past me. Once inside, he added, “He’s expecting me,” and headed for the stairs and Wolfe’s room.

I retreated to the kitchen and tried to enjoy my breakfast of shirred eggs, Fritz’s homemade sausage, and freshly-baked scones. I was taking the first sip of my second cup of coffee when I heard Saul’s footsteps in the hall, followed by the sound of the front door closing. A few minutes later came the sound of Wolfe’s elevator ascending to the plant rooms. So that was how it was going to be. I finished my coffee, thanked Fritz for my breakfast, and went to the office, where I spent the next two hours bringing the plant records up to date and typing my notes from yesterday evening.

When the elevator descended precisely at eleven, I thought I was prepared for anything – except, as it turned out, what Wolfe actually did. After he greeted me as usual with, “Good morning, Archie,” and sat down at his desk, he said, “Your notebook, please, Archie.” I complied. “A letter to Mr. Jameson, to be delivered by hand. One carbon. ‘Dear Sir: After due consideration, I find I am unable to undertake the engagement we discussed regarding the vigilante known as “Daredevil.” I must therefore decline your offer.’ The usual closing.”

I turned to my typewriter and hit the keys. I can’t say I was sorry Wolfe had turned down Jameson’s job, especially now that we had another paying client, but I wasn’t looking forward to Jameson’s reaction. It wasn’t going to be pretty.

  
When the doorbell rang at ten minutes to four and I went to answer it, I wasn’t surprised to see Jameson on the stoop. He looked agitated and was holding a piece of paper in his right hand: Wolfe’s letter. He had no appointment, and I considered letting him stay out there to stew. But we’d have to deal with him sooner or later, and it looked like it was going to start raining, any minute now. So I opened up. He shouldered past me, not stopping to take off his coat, and double-timed it down the hall. I followed. In the office, he made a beeline for Wolfe, crumpled the paper, and threw it down on Wolfe’s desk. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

Wolfe looked at Jameson as if he’d just thrown a bay leaf in his beer. He marked his place in his current book, _The Course of Empire_ , by Bernard DeVoto, and put it down. Then he turned to me. “Archie, Mr. Jameson’s coat.” That stopped Jameson in his tracks. He allowed me to take his coat, which I put on the couch. I wasn’t about to take it to the coat rack in the hall and leave Jameson alone with Wolfe in the office. Then Wolfe addressed Jameson. “Sit down, please. I like eyes at my level.”

Jameson grumbled but complied. “I asked, what is the meaning of this?” he repeated, gesturing toward the crumpled paper.

“I would have thought it was self-evident,” Wolfe replied calmly. “I’m not taking the job.”

“But, but, why, you can’t, I mean, you have to,” Jameson spluttered.

“Pfui. Your wanting me to take the job does not obligate me to do so.”

“But why?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation, either,” Wolfe told him, “but I’ll give you this. You want to expose Daredevil to create a few days’ sensation and sell newspapers. My self-esteem does not permit me to undertake so cheap and tawdry a job.”

“But the man’s a criminal, a thug who beats up people,” Jameson protested. “It’s only a matter of time until he kills someone.”

Wolfe pursed his lips. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But I’ve read the accounts of his exploits, some in your own newspaper. The people he’s helped say he’s a hero. Some even say he’s doing God’s work. I don’t know what’s in his mind, or in his heart. But I cannot, in good conscience, expose him.”

Jameson leaned forward in the red leather chair. “You know who he is, don’t you?” he asked, his eyes gleaming.

“Know?” Wolfe asked. “Conjecture, surmise, perhaps. But certain knowledge? No.” He stood and gave Jameson a curt nod. “And now I have another engagement. Good day, sir.” He turned and walked out. I checked the clock on my desk. Four o’clock on the dot. He was right on time for his date with the orchids.

“Wait! Stop!” Jameson yelled. It was futile. He was yelling at empty air. Then he wagged a finger at me. “You haven’t heard the last of this.”

I shrugged and got up to hand him his coat, before heading to the kitchen for a glass of milk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the time period when this story takes place, Elektra would not have attended Columbia, which did not admit women as undergraduates until 1983. She would have attended Barnard College, the women’s college affiliated with Columbia University, one of the so-called “Seven Sisters.”
> 
> In the early 1950s, Tax Day in the U.S. was March 15th. It was moved to April 15th in 1955.
> 
> During World War II, Valley Forge General Hospital was one of two Army hospitals specializing in the treatment and “social rehabilitation” of soldiers who had suffered blinding eye injuries.


	2. Chapter 2

It was three days before we learned what Jameson had in store for us. I don’t want to live through three days like that, ever again. When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at six on the evening of Jameson’s visit, I filled him in on the dope Nelson and Murdock had uncovered about the attacks on Miss Natchios’s buildings. My report finished, I asked for instructions. Wolfe grunted, picked up his book, and rang for beer.

From that point on, it was a full-on sit-down strike. Of course, with Wolfe, “sit-down” was a given. He wasn’t completely idle for those three days, but when it came to work, he was definitely on strike. He still spent the usual four hours – nine to eleven in the morning and four to six in the afternoon – with the ten thousand orchids on the roof. One day was devoted to the preparation of something called _saucisse minuit_ , the recipe for which was known only to Wolfe and the fancy cook who’d invented it. Fritz served it at dinner that night. It was tasty enough, but I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. 

Wolfe finished _The Course of Empire_ and started a new book, _Lights Out_ , by Baynard Kendrick. I took a look at it when Wolfe was up in the plant rooms. It was a novel about a solider who had been blinded in the war and his experiences at the Valley Forge Army Hospital. According to his biography on the dust jacket, the author had worked there during the war. Apparently Murdock had made an impression. Before this, I’d never known Wolfe to take an interest in the blind or the handicapped in general.

I was itching to get to work on the case, but when I asked Wolfe for instructions, he gave me the brush-off. Not for the first time, I wondered what was the point of taking a case, if we weren’t going to work on it. I knew better than to pose that question to Wolfe. Odds were he wouldn’t answer at all, and if he did, the answer would be something that only a genius like him could understand.

I busied myself with bookkeeping and updating the plant records, but by the third day, I’d run out of routine chores to do. I also fielded a couple of calls from Miss Page, inquiring about the case, and I assured her she’d hear from us when we had something to report. She sounded doubtful but didn’t make a fuss. When I told Wolfe about the calls, he merely grunted and returned to his reading.

On the morning of the third day, we finally learned Jameson’s scheme. All of the city’s major newspapers were delivered to the brownstone every day, but the _Bugle_ usually got only a passing glance, if that. Wolfe prefers the _Times_. I usually read the _Times_ at the breakfast table, and I also peruse the _Gazette_ , for the news the _Times_ deems not “fit to print.” But ever since Jameson left in a huff, I’d been sure to check the _Bugle_ for any hints about what he was up to. That morning, it was right there on the front page, a big black headline reading, **“WHO IS DAREDEVIL?”** The sub-head offered a prize of $50,000 to anyone who could expose Daredevil’s identity, with proof. But it was the body of the story that really caught my attention. It began, “Nero Wolfe wouldn’t even try to crack this case. But we at the _Bugle_ think our readers are smarter than that.” It went downhill from there, a full-on hatchet job. I didn’t much like it, but if it goaded Wolfe into action, it would be worth it.

Nothing doing. When Wolfe came down at eleven, the _Bugle_ was front and center on his desk blotter. He gave it a cursory glance, tossed it aside, and picked up _Lights Out_. I couldn’t take it. I told Wolfe acidly that I was going for a walk, unless he had instructions for me. He merely grunted, not lifting his eyes from the book. I went to the kitchen for a glass of milk and to tell Fritz I wouldn’t be back for lunch. This situation called for corned beef on rye, two things that are never seen at Wolfe’s table.

As I sat at the lunch counter around the corner on Tenth Avenue, chewing on my sandwich, I was chewing on the situation, too. Was Wolfe just in a funk, or was there a reason he wasn’t working on the lawyers’ case? And what about Daredevil? Wolfe obviously knew something about him. I had no idea what it could be. Apparently, there was some connection with Nelson or Murdock. Otherwise, why turn down Jameson’s job immediately after they showed up? But I couldn’t see a connection. War service notwithstanding, Nelson was no fighter, and Murdock was blind. Neither could possibly be Daredevil. But Lon Cohen said the firm sometimes worked with the vigilante. Maybe that was it. I shrugged. It seemed pretty thin to me.

I got back to the old brownstone just before four that afternoon. Before Wolfe left for his afternoon session with the orchids, I reminded him I was taking Lily Rowan to the theater that evening. He got to his feet, nodded, and exited stage right. Apparently the sit-down strike was still on. I went to the kitchen to beg Fritz for a sandwich. I wouldn’t have time to dine with Wolfe before leaving for the theater, and I didn’t particularly want to, anyway.

The evening was an improvement over the last three days: box seats for _Kismet_ , followed by a late supper at Rusterman’s. I took Miss Rowan home to the penthouse she bought with part (a very small part) of the pile she’d inherited from her father, who made it building sewers for Tammany. I went up with her for a nightcap. After a pleasant interlude, it was time for me to go, back to the brownstone on 35th Street. I parked the roadster at Tom Halloran’s garage down the block and walked home from there. I had just reached the brownstone when I heard a low voice say, “Goodwin.” It came from the areaway under the front steps. I turned toward the sound, wishing I had my Marley .32, but of course I hadn’t taken a gun with me to the theater.

“I’m just here to talk,” the voice said. I decided to take a chance and stepped into the areaway. 

When my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I could make out a figure, about my height, dressed in red. I saw the horns on the helmet covering his head and deduced my interlocutor was Daredevil.

“The man you’re looking for, the one behind the attacks on Miss Natchios’s properties, his name is Wilson Fisk,” Daredevil said.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“He’s a slippery one,” Daredevil replied, “doesn’t like attention. But he’s been quietly buying up buildings all over Hell’s Kitchen for the past several years.”

“And you know this how?”

“Miss Page was able to identify one of the goons who smashed up the apartments. I, uh, persuaded him to give up Fisk’s name.”

I wished I could look Daredevil in the eye, to see if he was being straight with me. But the eyeholes in his mask were covered by dark red lenses. How the hell did he even see out of that thing?

“You ‘persuaded’ him, huh?” I asked.

Daredevil shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?” He smirked, then continued. “Miss Page has dug up some information about Fisk. It may help.”

I had my doubts about that, even if Wolfe could be persuaded to go to work, but I told him to ask Miss Page to be at the office at eleven the next morning. Daredevil nodded and darted away, disappearing into the passage between the brownstone and the house next door. I climbed the stairs to the front door and went inside, making sure the door was locked and the chain bolt was on.

  
In the morning, I finished my breakfast and headed for Wolfe’s room. A female was going to be waiting for him in the office when he came down at eleven. After his behavior the past few days, I was tempted to spring her on him, but I decided against it. He was apt to bolt, or worse, if taken by surprise, and she might be my best chance of getting him to go to work. So I set my jaw and trudged up the stairs.

I knocked on Wolfe’s door and was told to enter. Even accustomed to it as I was, the sight of him in bed was always impressive: an acre of yellow pajama top contrasting with the black silk bed spread. “Well?” he snapped as a greeting.

“Good morning to you, too,” I replied, standing my ground at the foot of the bed. “I had a run-in with your favorite vigilante last night.”

“This is flummery.”

“No flummery. Daredevil was there, in all his devilish redness, in the areaway under the front stairs. By the way, have you ever wondered how he manages to see anything through that mask of his? I’m guessing he must have X-ray vision, you know, like Superman.”

Wolfe grunted. “Hmpf.” 

“He came to tell me that the man behind the threats to Miss Natchios and the damage to her properties is someone named Wilson Fisk. Ever heard of him?”

“No.”

“Me neither. But you will. Miss Page is coming at eleven this morning, to give us the lowdown on him.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do. Or maybe I should say, Daredevil does.”

Wolfe frowned. “Very well. I’ll see her.”

It was a dismissal, so I left.

The clock on my desk read 10:59 when the doorbell rang. She was prompt, I’ll give her that. I heard Wolfe’s elevator descending as I walked down the hall. By the time I opened the door, took her coat, and escorted her down the hall, Wolfe was already in the office and seated behind his desk. 

“Miss Page,” he said, gesturing toward the red leather chair. She took a seat. Anticipating her visit, I had already positioned the chair for maximum visibility from my desk. Unlike the other evening, when her long blonde hair was swept up into a French twist, today it was loose, held back from her face with a pair of tortoise shell clips. Her navy blue suit was nothing special, no doubt bought off the rack at Macy’s or Gimbels. The skirt was a little too long for my taste, limiting my view of her legs, but what I could see was pleasing. So was the rest of her.

Wolfe addressed her. “Mr. Goodwin says you have information for us.”

“Yes, I do,” she replied, pulling a folder out of her oversized handbag.

“Please, begin,” Wolfe instructed.

“As you already know, we believe Wilson Fisk is behind the harassment and attacks on Miss Natchios and her properties. He’s a shadowy figure, not much is known about him. He was born and raised in Hell’s Kitchen until the age of 12. The years after that, and during and immediately after the war, are a blank. He returned to the city about five years ago, apparently having made quite a bit of money, no one knows how. At least, no one who’s talking. We suspect he made his money by unsavory means, but there’s no confirmation of that. He may have spent time in Asia after the war, but again, there’s no confirmation. Three years ago, he married an art gallery owner, a Vanessa Marianna. Since he arrived in the city, he’s been buying up properties, mostly in Hell’s Kitchen, tearing some down and building new buildings in their place, renovating others. In either case, the tenants, most of them long-term residents, have been forced out.”

Wolfe pursed his lips. “You’re sure this Fisk person is responsible?”

Miss Page nodded. “Fairly certain. There are no SEC filings – it’s a privately held corporation – but I have a contact at . . . a bank.” That was very cagey of her, not naming the bank. “My contact confirms Fisk is the principal owner of Union Allied Construction, a subsidiary of VWF, Incorporated, the company that bought up the properties in question. And the thug who gave Fisk’s name to Daredevil works for Union Allied. Or he did. He’s probably long gone.”

“No doubt,” Wolfe agreed, leaning back in his chair.

“And there’s one other thing – ” Miss Page began.

When she hesitated, Wolfe interjected, giving an infinitesimal wave of his hand. “Proceed.”

“There was a murder a couple of weeks ago. Still unsolved. A young woman named Carole Brandt. She worked at Union Allied as the private secretary to the chief accountant. She was found strangled in her apartment. The police aren’t saying much. A reporter I know, Ben Urich at the _Bugle_ , was working on the story. He told me about an anonymous tip he received, that Miss Brandt had compiled a file of incriminating information on Fisk and Union Allied. According to Ben, no such file was found in her apartment. And then he got pulled off the story.”

“Indeed,” Wolfe observed.

“That’s all we have, so far,” Miss Page concluded. She stood and placed the file on Wolfe’s desk, then she added, “We know Fisk is a killer. We have to stop him.” She picked up her handbag and turned to leave.

“Quite,” Wolfe said. “I’ll look into it.” My heart sang. He was finally going to go to work. Then he did something astonishing, something he almost never did, especially for a woman. He lifted his bulk from his chair and inclined his head a full half inch. For him, that was a deep bow. “Good day, Miss Page.”

I scraped my jaw off the floor and walked Miss Page to the door. When I returned to the office, he was back in his chair. 

“Well,” I began as I sat at my desk, “it looks like you’ve found the perfect clients. They do all the legwork, with some help from Daredevil, and you can just sit back and collect your fee.”

“Pfui,” Wolfe replied. He shifted a bit, still getting comfortable, then said, “That is a dangerous woman.”

I raised one eyebrow. Wolfe hates it when I do that, because he can’t. “Dangerous?”

“She knows what facts are and how to get them and how to use them,” Wolfe explained. “And she is persistent. An unusual combination, in a woman.”

“You’re probably going to have to get used to it. There’s a good chance I’m going to marry her.”

Wolfe snorted. “Poppycock.”

“Instructions?”

“See Mr. Cohen again,” Wolfe instructed. “Find out what he has on this Wilson Fisk, and about the murder of Miss Brandt. Then I’ll consider how to proceed.”

“What about Inspector Cramer?” I asked, referring to our sometime ally, sometime enemy at Homicide West.

“Not yet,” Wolfe said, “only if Mr. Cohen’s information is insufficient. Now, confound it, leave me in peace.” He picked up _Lights Out_ , opened it, and read.

  
When I arrived at Lon’s office that afternoon, I had Miss Page’s file with me. I handed it to him, and he read. When he was finished, he put it down and said, “Those lawyers are very thorough, I’ll give them that.”

“Not them,” I told him, “their girl.”

“Really?” he asked. I confirmed it. “Then she’s in the wrong line of work. We could use someone like her at the _Gazette_. Tell her to call me.”

I said I would, but I doubted she would take him up on it. Then I asked him if he had anything else for me.

Lon sighed. “Not really. We got the same tip Urich got, about the Union Allied file. Then someone tried to get us to drop the story, too. Our publisher said ‘Nuts’ to that. But in the end, we didn’t have enough confirmation to go to print with it. All I have is a list of names, Miss Brandt’s friends and associates. We couldn’t get anything out of them, but maybe you can.”

  
I spent the next two days traversing four of the five boroughs, running down the names on Lon’s list. It was a bust. I learned plenty about Miss Brandt, but most of them knew nothing that would help. I suspected a few of them of holding out on me, probably because they were spooked by what happened to Miss Brandt and decided the way to keep on living was to clam up. I didn’t blame them.

At a quarter to six on the second day, I let myself in the front door, weary and footsore. I went to the office and poured myself a stiff belt of rye before sitting down at my desk. Wolfe appeared at precisely one minute past six. He went to his desk, sat, and rang for beer before addressing me. “Anything?”

I shook my head. “Nope. A lot about Miss Brandt, but nothing that will help, as far as I can tell.”

“Report,” Wolfe ordered. 

It didn’t take me long to spill what I knew. “Miss Brandt was born and raised in a small town in Indiana. After finishing secretarial school, she decided to try her luck in the big city and came to New York eight years ago, shortly after the war. She worked mostly as a combination secretary and bookkeeper for small concerns, using what she’d learned in a bookkeeping course at her secretarial school. She landed the job at Union Allied three years ago.

“That’s it,” I concluded. “As I said, nothing that helps.”

Wolfe grunted and reached for his book. Before he opened it, I reminded him I would not be joining him at dinner. I had an engagement to escort Miss Rowan to some shindig at an art gallery.

“Confound it, man, you must eat,” Wolfe protested. He hates the thought of anyone being hungry.

I stood. “No. What I need is a bath.” I decided not to mention the greasy hash I’d eaten at a grade C diner somewhere in the Bronx that afternoon. I could still taste it. It would ruin anything Fritz might give me. I went upstairs to bathe and dust off my tux.

Two hours later, as I walked in the door at the “Scene Contempo” art gallery with Lily Rowan on my arm, I did a double take. Standing in the middle of the room was Wilson Fisk. I recognized him from a photo in Miss Page’s file; he was one of a group of people at some charity event. What the photo didn’t show was his size. He was a little taller than Wolfe and fully as broad. His white sharkskin suit made him look even larger than he was. Light from the gallery’s spotlights reflected off his totally bald head. Next to him was a willowy brunette in a black satin sheath, which she filled out in all the right places. His wife Vanessa. She was a little too mature for my taste but by no means over the hill. 

I spent the next hour or so following Lily around as she chatted with various people she knew. Apparently the shindig was supposed to raise money for one of the many charities she took an interest in. Mainly, I admired the view. The view of Lily, that is, in a blue taffeta number that was one of my favorites. I certainly wasn’t admiring the pictures hanging on the walls, which were of the “modern art” variety but mostly looked like a mess to me.

Not long after we arrived, I saw a flash of red out of the corner of my eye. When I took a closer look, I was surprised to see Miss Natchios in a clinging gown of red silk, escorted by Murdock, of all people. I wouldn’t have thought he owned a tux. When she saw me, she took a step toward me, but I gave her a slight shake of the head and aimed my eyes in Fisk’s direction. It was better if Fisk didn’t know she’d consulted Wolfe. Assuming he didn’t already know. She got the message and turned away, murmuring to Murdock.

I kept an eye on the pair, off and on, while pretending to hang on every word from a bunch of people I didn’t know and didn’t care to know. Then I caught a glimpse of them, disappearing through a door at the rear of the gallery. I asked Lily to excuse me and followed them. The door opened into a stairwell. I didn’t see them, but I thought I heard voices coming from above, so I went up. No sign of them on the floor above the gallery. I kept climbing. Two floors up, I opened the stairwell door an inch or two and peeked through the crack. I was looking into an office. Miss Natchios and Murdock were there. A wall safe, that had been hidden behind a picture, was standing open. Murdock was taking things, mostly papers, out of the safe and handing them to Miss Natchios. She looked through them quickly, then stopped when she got to a file folder. She opened it and examined its contents, then whispered, “This is it.”

“Good,” he said in a low voice. “We need to go. Someone’s coming.” They put everything but the file folder back in the safe and closed it, making sure the picture clicked into place over it. Murdock shoved the folder under his jacket, and they skedaddled, leaving through a window on the far side of the room that opened onto a fire escape.

I didn’t hear anyone coming, but I beat it, too, back down the stairs. I spent the rest of the evening trying to puzzle out what I had just seen. I was obviously right about Miss Natchios; there was more to her than met the eye. But why would she bring her lawyer, her _blind_ lawyer, along on a caper like that? And was the file folder what I thought it was? If so, I needed to get my hands on it, and pronto.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lights Out_ , by Baynard Kendrick, is a real book, published in 1945. It was made into a movie, _Bright Victory_ (1951). Kendrick was one of the founders of the Mystery Writers of America. His works include a series of mysteries featuring a blind detective, Duncan Maclain.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, I barely tasted Fritz’s buckwheat griddle cakes with honey. I was in so much of a hurry to get that file, I almost forgot to thank Fritz for the meal.

It was a short walk to the address on Nelson’s business card, a building at the corner of Tenth Avenue and West 47th Street. When I got there, I found pretty much what you’d expect for a couple of small-time lawyers: a few rooms on the third floor (walk-up, of course) above a hardware store. The only part of the set-up that was out of the ordinary was Murdock’s office, which I could see through a window in the interior wall that separated it from the reception area. There were stacks of oversized books, which I supposed were in Braille, on his desk and the floor next to it. Something that looked like a record player and a stack of records were on one corner of the desk. Murdock himself was seated behind the desk, listening to a voice coming out of a Dictaphone. The voice sounded like Miss Page’s. His white cane was leaning against the wall, in the corner behind his desk. As soon as I walked in the door, Murdock flipped a switch on the Dictaphone and got to his feet, heading out of his office to meet me. He held out his hand, and we shook, no hesitation or fumbling on his part. 

Nelson and Miss Page came out of Nelson’s office. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, then sat around a table in their small conference room. I had decided on the direct approach and was about to speak, when Murdock said, “You’re here for the file.”

Surprised, I nodded. Then I remembered Murdock couldn’t see me and said, “Yes.”

“Sure,” Murdock said, “You can have it.” He stood up, apparently intending to go get it.

I stopped him. “Wait a minute. What’s the story with Miss Natchios?”

He turned toward me. “Exactly what I said the other night.”

“No, there’s got to be more, like, for example, where she learned to crack a safe that fast.”

Murdock smiled. “You think she did that?”

“Of cou – ” The word died in my throat. Damn. It wasn’t her, it was Murdock. That’s why he was there. “ _You_ did that?” Murdock nodded, looking smug. “But – ?”

“I can’t see worth a damn, but my hearing’s outstanding,” he explained. Maybe so, I thought, but he didn’t learn how to crack a safe at Columbia Law. There was more to his story, too. Like how he knew I knew they had the file. I supposed Miss Natchios could have seen me watching them while they were rifling the safe, but I hadn’t seen anything to indicate she’d spotted me. 

Murdock walked out of the room, touching the door frame and trailing a hand along the wall. When he returned, he had the file folder with him. I took a quick look at its contents. It was Miss Brandt’s file, all right. And it came from Wilson Fisk’s safe. I put it down and told them, “Mr. Wolfe will have to see this.”

“What’s he going to do with it?” Nelson asked.

I shrugged. “That’s up to Mr. Wolfe. He’s the genius.” I took my leave and walked back to the brownstone. On the way, I wondered what the story was with Murdock and Miss Natchios. Murdock said he and Nelson were “acquainted” with her in college, and they seemed to be all business last night at the gallery. But I’d bet they were more than acquaintances. Murdock seemed at ease with her, in a way that spoke of intimacy, past or present or both. And I saw the looks Murdock got from some of the women at the gallery. There was something about him that attracted them, in spite of his handicap or maybe, in some cases, because of it. I doubted Miss Natchios was immune to his appeal, whatever it was.

Then there was Miss Page. The way she looked at Murdock, across the table in the conference room this morning, was lost on him, but not on me. I knew what that look meant. She was smitten. I was going to have to give up on the idea of marrying her. I hadn’t noticed Miss Page looking at him like that the other evening, when they were at the office. She had her eyes under better control then and made sure she sat as far away from him as possible. Maybe that was because Miss Natchios was there. I hoped Murdock wasn’t going to break Miss Page’s heart, but I had a feeling he might.

It was only ten forty when I got back to the brownstone with the file. Wolfe didn’t know it had been found. He was already in bed when I got back last night, and this morning I was in too much of a hurry to go up to his room and report. I was tempted to take the file to him, up in the plant rooms, but I knew what his reaction would be. As far as he was concerned, nothing short of the house catching on fire justified interrupting his sacred hours with the orchids. I placed the file front and center on his desk, then went to the kitchen and chatted with Fritz while he did something with lamb chops. I stayed until I heard Wolfe’s elevator descending. I was already at my desk when he walked in. He wished me a good morning and sat. He looked at the file folder but didn’t open it. “What is this?” he asked.

“Miss Brandt’s file,” I told him.

“Indeed,” Wolfe said. “And how did you obtain it?”

“I didn’t,” I replied. “Murdock and Miss Natchios swiped it from Wilson Fisk’s safe last night.”

“Preposterous.”

“No, sir. I saw them take it myself. And there’s something else.” Wolfe gave me a questioning look. “Next time Murdock’s here, remind me not to leave him in the office by himself.”

“And why would you not want to do that?” Wolfe asked.

“Because he’s the one who cracked Fisk’s safe,” I told him.

Wolfe wasn’t interested in Murdock’s safe-cracking abilities. Instead, he opened the file folder and glanced through the pages inside. Then he closed it and leaned back in his chair. After a moment, he closed his eyes and clasped his hands together over his ample middle. Then his lips moved, in and out, in and out. That meant only one thing: he was working, really working. I stayed very still, although I doubted anything less than the final trumpet would have stopped the process. This time, it lasted only about five minutes. He opened his eyes and sat up straight. “Archie,” he said, “instructions.”

  
A little before three that afternoon, I was in an anteroom on the top floor of a thirty-story building that housed the offices of Union Allied Construction, trying to persuade a bespectacled underling by the name of James Wesley that, yes, I really had a message for Wilson Fisk from Nero Wolfe, and it could only be delivered to Mr. Fisk in person. Wesley wasn’t budging, and neither was I. Finally I told him, “Your boss is going to learn the message, one way or another, and I guarantee he’s going to want to hear it. Do you really want to be the one who kept it from him?” I could almost hear the wheels turning in Wesley’s head as he processed this information. So I didn’t let up. “I’m guessing he’d be very unhappy with that person. And he doesn’t strike me as someone you want to be unhappy with you.”

That did it. Wesley conceded I might have a point and admitted me to the inner sanctum. In another white suit, Fisk was every bit as big as he was last night. I handed him a business card. “Archie Goodwin. I work for Nero Wolfe."

“So?” Fisk asked, rather rudely, I thought.

I decided to ignore his rudeness and continued. “Mr. Wolfe sent me to deliver a message, or you might call it a suggestion. He suggests you check the contents of your safe at the art gallery.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Fisk demanded.

I demurred. “I’m only here to deliver Mr. Wolfe’s message,” I told him.

Fisk raised his voice. _“Answer me!”_ he bellowed.

“Sorry,” I replied. “I have my instructions from Mr. Wolfe, and they don’t include answering any questions. If you want answers, you’ll have to get them from him. He’s not available between four and six, but if you come to the office at six, you’ll be admitted. The address is on my card.” I turned and walked out, thinking it was fifty-fifty they’d try to stop me. They didn’t.

I made it back to the brownstone in time to report “message delivered” before Wolfe left for the plant rooms.

“Satisfactory,” he said. “Mr. Cramer and Mr. Stebbins will be here at a quarter to six. I have told them they can observe from the alcove as long as they agree not to interfere.”

“What about the lawyers and their client?” I asked. “They should be here, too.”

“Very well,” he replied grumpily. “Put them in the front room.” He levered himself to his feet and walked out.

When the doorbell rang a few minutes after six, everyone was in place. Inspector Cramer and Sergeant Purley Stebbens were in the hidden alcove. From there they would be able to hear and see what went on in the office, through a hole in the wall that lined up with a hole in the picture of a waterfall behind Wolfe’s desk. The client, her two lawyers, and their secretary were in the front room. The lawyers had protested their exclusion from the proceedings but didn’t make a federal case out of it. Their protests seemed mostly for show, as if they felt they were expected to argue, being lawyers. Wolfe and I were at our desks. I had checked the top drawer of my desk to make sure my Marley .32 was handy and loaded, just in case. Miss Brandt’s file was locked in the safe.

I went and opened the door to Fisk. He barged in, stopping only when I offered to relieve him of his coat. As I hung it on the rack, he strode down the hall. I did a quick step and reached the office door in time to open it and announce him. He marched in and planted himself in front of Wolfe’s desk, leaning across it, the better to glare at Wolfe.

“Where is it?” he demanded.

“Sit down, sir,” Wolfe replied placidly, gesturing toward the red leather chair. “I prefer eyes at my level.”

“I don’t need to sit,” Fisk said. “Give me my property, and I’ll go.”

“Your property?” Wolfe asked. “I was given to understand it belonged to Miss Carole Brandt.”

“It’s mine, and I want it. Now,” Fisk declared.

“That remains to be seen,” Wolfe replied.

“Nothing ‘remains to be seen’,” Fisk countered. “You stole it from my safe.” He lowered his fundament to the red leather chair, then swiveled to glare at me. “Or your agent did. I know he was at the gallery last night.”

“Along with dozens of other people.”

“Bull. Of course he stole it. If he didn’t, how did you get it?”

Wolfe steepled his hands in front of his face, then said, “I am under no obligation to explain my possession of Miss Brandt’s file to you. Rather, it is you who must satisfy me about the legitimacy of your claim to it, if you expect me to deliver it to you.”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Fisk asserted.

“Then we are at an impasse,” Wolfe observed. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes for a moment, then continued. “But if you will not tell me how you obtained possession of the file, perhaps I can tell you.”

Fisk scoffed. “What, some story you’ve made up? I’ve heard about your tricks, Wolfe. Don’t think you’re going to trip me up.”

“I’m not playing games, sir,” Wolfe assured him. I recognized the tone of his voice, the one he used only when he was deadly serious. “Shall I proceed?”

Fisk nodded warily.

“It was the money, of course,” Wolfe began. “Money leaves a trail and tells its story to those who can follow the trail. Miss Brandt could. She was an experienced bookkeeper. She understood what the numbers were telling her. And what she saw shocked her. Despite her years in this city, she was a small-town girl at heart. What did she see, you may ask. She saw money coming into Union Allied from criminal enterprises and going out to fund other criminal enterprises. It was all disguised, of course, but not well enough to conceal it from her bookkeeper’s eye.”

Wolfe paused to drink beer. When he had taken in a sufficient quantity, he set his glass down and continued. “What did she do with this information? She was sharp enough to see what was going on, but in some ways she was naive. She took her information to you, didn’t she, Mr. Fisk?”

Fisk glared at him. I cracked open my desk drawer, just enough to reach inside and put a hand on the Marley.

“You needn’t answer,” Wolfe said indifferently, waving his hand a half inch. “We both know that’s what she did. She thought it was all being done behind your back, without your knowledge. But she soon learned how wrong she was. You wouldn’t have let it slip in your meeting with her, of course, but nothing she told you was news to you. You couldn’t allow her to live, not with what she knew. I doubt you killed her yourself. Strangling doesn’t seem to be your style. One of your henchmen did the deed.”

“A pretty fairy tale,” Fisk scoffed. “A pity you can’t prove any of it.”

“But I can,” Wolfe retorted. “I have Miss Brandt’s file. And you have admitted it was in your possession.”

“I’ll deny it,” Fisk declared.

Wolfe shrugged. “It’s two against one. Mr. Goodwin heard your admission.”

“Goodwin doesn’t count. He works for you. He’ll say whatever you tell him to.”

That was offensive. I’ve been known to stretch the truth from time to time, when the occasion called for it. But a full-blown frame job was strictly off-limits. I didn’t appreciate being discounted like that, either.

“You know what is in that file, Mr. Fisk,” Wolfe told him. “Face it, you’re done for.”

 _“Give it to me!”_ Fisk roared as he rose from the red leather chair. He picked up the little table beside it and threw it at Wolfe, who dodged it, more nimbly than you’d expect from a man of his size. The table shattered against the wall.

I jumped up, grabbing the Marley from the drawer, and moved to intercept Fisk as he charged around the desk toward Wolfe, his fists raised above his head. 

Murdock burst into the office from the front room, followed by Nelson and the two women. Nelson was yelling, “Matt! Stop!” Murdock stopped short, an instant before Cramer and Stebbens rushed into the office. The two cops and I pulled Fisk off of Wolfe and subdued him, but not before he landed a couple of punches. Wolfe was going to have a hell of a shiner. 

When Fisk was in handcuffs on the Persian carpet with three guns pointed at him, Wolfe stood over him, looking down his nose. “Hmpf,” he snorted. Then he turned to Cramer. “Mr. Cramer. Kindly remove him from my office.” 

Cramer and Stebbins wrestled Fisk to his feet and dragged him down the hall. I was waiting, holding the front door open. They propelled him out onto the stoop. I closed and locked the door behind them.

  
Things happened pretty quickly, once word got out about Fisk’s arrest. Most of his flunkies and henchmen went on the lam. Those that didn’t move fast enough joined their boss in the cooler. One of them was the killer of Miss Brandt. To save himself from a rendezvous with the electric chair, he made a deal with the DA and confessed to committing the murder and taking the file, on Fisk’s orders. More importantly for our clients, Fisk’s organization had been wiped out. There would be no more threats to Miss Natchios or her tenants and properties. Wolfe had earned his fee.

Four days after the denouement in the office, the two lawyers, along with Misses Natchios and Page, joined Wolfe and me in the dining room for lunch. Wolfe’s rule against talking business at the table was in full force, of course. Over _omelettes aux fines herbes_ , Fritz’s corn fritters, and avocado and grapefruit salad, the conversation touched on the Supreme Court’s expected decision in _Brown v. Board of Education_ (both lawyers had opinions about that), McCarthyism, the current situation in Greece, and Murdock’s experiences at the Valley Forge Army Hospital during the war. 

After lunch, we had coffee in the office, and Wolfe filled them in on the case or, rather, the parts they didn’t already know. At one point during his discourse, Miss Page seemed to catch his eye. I wasn’t sure what that was about. When he was finished, he turned to Miss Natchios and said, “I have done the job you hired me for. Henceforth, Mr. Fisk’s henchmen will disturb neither you nor your tenants. My fee is $15,000, in addition to the retainer you have already paid.” To her credit, Miss Natchios didn’t quibble. She took out her checkbook and pen and wrote. She handed the check to Wolfe, who gave it a quick look, then dropped it on the desk.

I looked at my watch: four o’clock. Wolfe rose from his chair. “I must now leave you, to tend to my plants. Mr. Goodwin will answer any further questions you may have.” Then he turned to Miss Page and asked, “Would you care to join me, Miss Page?”

She blushed and stammered a bit. “Why, um, why, yes, yes, I would.”

“Then come with me, please,” Wolfe said as he walked out of the office. Miss Page followed him. Miss Natchios opened her mouth as if to speak, but she closed it without saying anything. She didn’t need to. The look of consternation on her face said it all.

The next morning, when I returned to the brownstone after depositing Miss Natchios’s check, Saul Panzer was just leaving. He was wearing the smug expression that meant Wolfe was sending him on an errand that he didn’t want me to know about. I accosted him on the stoop and tried to pry it out of him. No dice. I let him go, after reminding him who won last week’s poker game. He observed that even a blind squirrel finds an acorn once in a while. I stewed at my desk until lunchtime, trying to figure out what Wolfe had up his sleeve, but I came up empty. The job was finished, and with the check from Miss Natchios, we were sitting pretty. I should know; I’m the bookkeeper. Wolfe was up to something, but I had no idea what it was.

It took almost two weeks, but I finally found out. Ever since the dust-up with Jameson, I had been checking the _Bugle_ when it arrived every morning. The paper’s crusade to expose Daredevil continued without a let-up and also, apparently, without results. The attacks on Wolfe also continued unabated. “A genius in his own mind.” “Mountainous mountebank.” “Inadequacy masquerading as eccentricity.” Those were some of the milder insults they hurled at him. They even attacked the orchids, calling them “frivolous.”

On the tenth day after Cramer, Stebbins, and I stood over Fisk, pointing our guns at him, the front page of the _Bugle_ screamed, **“DAREDEVIL UNMASKED!”** Below the headline was a grainy black-and-white shot of someone in a devil suit. The accompanying article carried J. Jonah Jameson’s byline:

“Thanks to information supplied by an anonymous informant, which has been confirmed by our reporting staff, the _Bugle_ can now disclose that the multimillionaire Daniel Rand, majority stockholder in Rand Enterprises, is the vigilante known as ‘Daredevil.’ Reached for comment, a spokesman for Rand Enterprises denied the report and stated that the _Bugle_ would be hearing from Rand’s attorneys. The _Bugle_ stands by its reporting.

“The anonymous informant declined the award of $50,000 for disclosure of Daredevil’s identity and requested that the money be donated to the American Foundation for the Blind. The _Bugle_ commends him for his generosity and has made the donation as requested. A spokesman for the Foundation stated, ‘We are grateful for the generous gift from this anonymous donor and wish to assure him the funds will be put to good use, supporting our programs and services for the blind.’” ###

When he came down from the plant rooms, Wolfe merely glanced at the _Bugle_. Then he pushed it aside, picked up a book, and began to read. The book was a new one, I noticed. Apparently, he had finished _Lights Out_.

Two days later, the _Bugle_ published a retraction of the “Rand is Daredevil” story. The _Bugle_ ran the retraction on page 10. In all of the other papers, it was on the front page, thanks to a well-timed press release by Rand’s spokesman. I would be lying if I said I was sorry to see Jameson with egg on his face. When Wolfe came down from the plant rooms at eleven, I looked up from the germination records and observed, “So Rand isn’t Daredevil, after all.”

“Of course not,” Wolfe snapped. “Mr. Jameson is an ass.”

“I agree, but if Rand isn’t Daredevil, who is?”

Wolfe gave me a crabby look, then said, “Surely you know.”

“How would I know?” I retorted. Then it hit me: Wolfe knew. “Just a damn minute. You know, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Wolfe replied serenely. “And so do you.”

“I do _not_ ,” I told him firmly.

Wolfe sighed. “Archie. You are allowing your assumptions and pre-conceived notions to cloud your mental processes. They are preventing you from seeing what is right in front of you.”

“And what might that be?”

“You know everything you need to know in order to deduce Daredevil’s identity. Indeed, you have met him.”

“Of course I have. In the areaway, about two weeks ago.”

“Not only there,” Wolfe informed me, “but also here, in this house, more than once.”

That had me stumped. Except for Saul and a few delivery boys bringing in delicacies for the kitchen or supplies for the orchids, our only recent visitors had been Jameson, Nelson and Murdock, Miss Natchios and Miss Page, Cramer and Stebbins, and Fisk. I ruled out Jameson, Fisk, the two cops, and the two women, right off the bat. Nelson and Murdock were easy to rule out, too: Nelson wasn’t nearly svelte enough to be Daredevil, and Murdock was blind. I wrestled with the problem for a while, then decided to go for a walk. Some people do their best thinking in the shower. I do my best thinking while I’m walking.

I was strolling along 11th Avenue between 50th and 51st when the answer came to me: it had to be Murdock. I ran through everything I knew about him, and it all fit. The way he seemed to know where things were, the way he ran into the office when Fisk attacked Wolfe, the safe-cracking, the muscles, his broken nose and calloused and scarred knuckles, the dark red lenses in Daredevil’s mask. Then there was Wolfe’s abrupt decision to turn down Jameson’s job the morning after meeting Murdock. Wolfe’s snide comments about “assumptions” and “pre-conceived notions” were the clincher. He was right: I had simply assumed a blind man couldn’t possibly be Daredevil. I still had a hard time wrapping my mind around the idea, but apparently it was possible. Maybe Murdock was faking his blindness, but I doubted it. Lon Cohen was clear that Murdock had lost his sight at the age of nine. There would have been no reason for him to fake being blind then, years before Daredevil showed up. No, I concluded, he must have some kind of unusual abilities or powers. It wasn’t unheard-of, after all.

It was almost time for lunch when I got back to the brownstone. I took a seat at my desk, then said a single word: “Murdock.”

Wolfe raised his head a half inch. “Of course,” he said dismissively.

“And the whole Rand caper, that was you, too, wasn’t it?”

He raised his head a little further. “Indeed,” he said. “I may have underestimated you.”

That was gratifying, but I wasn’t about to let him off the hook. Just then, Fritz entered to announce lunch, and the rule against discussing business at the table cut off any further conversation on the subject. I tried to convince Wolfe this was personal, not business, but he wasn’t buying.

Finally, we were back in the office with coffee. “Time’s up,” I said. “Spill.”

Wolfe leaned back in his chair, relishing the opportunity to tell the story. “When Mr. Murdock came to consult me, I noticed the same anomalies you apparently did. Manifestly, he is not an ordinary blind man. I formed an hypothesis that he was Daredevil. I confess I am not entirely certain how the idea came to me; it may simply have been a result of our discussion of Daredevil with Mr. Jameson the day before.

“Be that as it may, I enlisted Saul’s help to test my hypothesis. Saul easily learned the address of Mr. Murdock’s residence. That night, he took up a position on the roof of a building across the street from Mr. Murdock’s apartment and waited. Daredevil’s preference for traversing the city’s rooftops has been widely reported and is well-known. Shortly after 2 a.m., Daredevil appeared on the roof of Mr. Murdock’s building and entered the building from the roof. Saul remained at his post until the morning, when he saw Mr. Murdock leave the building a little past eight. A check of the building’s directory confirmed that Mr. Murdock’s apartment – 6A – is on the top floor.

“As you know, Saul reported to me that morning. His observations were not conclusive proof that Mr. Murdock is Daredevil, but coupled with my own observations, they provided a sufficient basis to believe my hypothesis was correct. Thus, I decided to turn down the job offered by Mr. Jameson. It would have been easy money, too easy. My self-esteem would not allow me to take the job under those circumstances.”

“And the Rand gambit, you did that, too, right?” I asked.

Wolfe nodded, then said, “Yes, but not entirely. Miss Page had a hand in it.”

“That afternoon. The plant rooms.”

“Yes. After lunch, she signaled that she wished to speak to me privately, hence the invitation.” Wolfe poured more coffee and sipped. “She knows, of course, that Mr. Murdock is Daredevil. She had been opposed to consulting me, fearing I would discover his secret. As I did. By that time, however, she had decided to trust me. She was concerned that the _Bugle_ ’s campaign would succeed in exposing him. She did not think any of the few people with certain knowledge of his identity would be swayed by the money, but she was worried some enterprising reporter would put the pieces together. 

“The Rand gambit, as you call it, was her idea. Mr. Rand spent most of his youth in the Far East and is a practitioner of their martial arts. He and Mr. Murdock, that is, Daredevil, have joined forces once or twice, and Mr. Rand has even filled in for Daredevil on a few occasions when Mr. Murdock was _hors de combat_. Saul was our emissary and the ‘anonymous informant.’ When approached by Saul, Mr. Rand readily, even enthusiastically, agreed to the scheme. He assisted in fabricating the ‘proof,’ and Saul made sure Jameson’s reporters found it.”

“But why would Rand agree to it?” I asked.

Wolfe waved a hand. “He knew the claim could easily be refuted.”

“How?”

“Mr. Rand often travels out of the country on business. It was a simple matter to establish his absence from the city on multiple occasions when Daredevil has been known to be active. The _Bugle_ reporters were so anxious to break the story – and please their employer – that they did not bother to check.”

Very slick. I approved.

  
When the doorbell rang a few minutes after six, I went to take a look through the one-way glass, then returned to the office to report. “Murdock. No appointment.”

Wolfe waved a hand. “Admit him.”

I went back down the hall and opened the door for the lawyer. After I took his coat and hat, he hung his cane beside them on the coat rack and followed me to the office. He stopped in the doorway to the office for a few seconds, tilting his head, then went straight to the red leather chair and stood in front of it. “Good evening, Mr. Murdock,” Wolfe said, inclining his head a half inch. “You wished to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Please sit. I prefer eyes at my level.” Murdock gave a wry half-smile at the request but sat.

“Will you have beer?” Wolfe asked.

“Yes. Thank you,” Murdock replied. 

Wolfe rang for Fritz. When he appeared, Wolfe said, “Beer, for Mr. Murdock, if you please, Fritz.”

After the beer delivery, Murdock poured and drank, then set his glass on the little table that had replaced the one destroyed by Fisk. “I wanted to thank you,” he said, “for what you did for me, that is.”

“I don’t divulge my clients’ secrets lightly,” Wolfe told him. “I imagine you don’t, either.”

“No, I don’t. But you didn’t only keep my secret. Karen – Miss Page – told me what you and she did, with Danny Rand. It was – ingenious. And it should discourage others from trying to expose me, in the short term, at least. I’m grateful for that. You didn’t have to do it.”

“No,” Wolfe agreed. “I do not make a gift of my services. I work for money. I need money and the things it buys. But I had to acknowledge that Miss Page materially contributed to the exposure of Mr. Fisk. As did you and Miss Natchios. I was indebted to all of you. I do not like being in anyone’s debt. And it pleased me to assist Miss Page. She is an . . . unusual woman.”

“That she is,” Murdock agreed with a smile. 

So he _did_ appreciate her. Maybe he wouldn’t break her heart, after all.

“It was not only my sense of obligation,” Wolfe continued. “I found Mr. Jameson’s scheme distasteful – broadcasting your identity merely to sell newspapers. It was satisfying to thwart him.”

“He would say he was doing a public service by disclosing Daredevil’s identity.”

“No doubt. But not everyone would agree.”

“Perhaps,” Murdock replied. He lifted his glass and drank. After he replaced it on the table, he continued. “But even if he had named me, who would believe it?” He gestured toward his eyes.

“You believe you could have weathered it, if Mr. Jameson had succeeded?”

“Probably.” Murdock paused and frowned. “Possibly. But I’d prefer not to have to, and for that I thank you.” 

“Quite.” Wolfe leaned back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of his face. It was a full minute before he spoke. “But now I wonder if you would oblige me. Miss Page was unable to explain satisfactorily how, exactly, you are able to do what you do.”

Murdock smiled wearily. “And you want to know.”

“I do.”

“Do you want the long version or the short one?”

“The long one.”

Murdock drank beer and set his glass on the little table before he spoke. “You know about the accident? When I was blinded? The chemical spill?”

“Yes,” Wolfe confirmed.

“The chemicals took my sight, but they amplified my other senses, made them stronger, sharper.”

That was disappointing. My money was on aliens or something radioactive. A chemical spill seemed, well, mundane. But Murdock probably didn’t think so. 

Murdock was still talking, continuing his explanation. “I can sense things other people can’t. This allows me to do some things, not everything but many things, as if I can see. My senses tell me where things and people are, their sizes and shapes, and when they move. I can’t see, of course, not like you or Mr. Goodwin, but I’ve learned that there are other ways of seeing.”

That sounded impressive, but I had my doubts. I picked up a glass paperweight and tossed it at Murdock. He didn’t even turn his head, just stuck out his hand and caught it.

“Archie,” Wolfe said reproachfully.

“It was a test,” I told him.

Murdock smirked. “Did I pass?”

Wolfe sighed, then addressed Murdock. “I have read about echolocation. Is that what you do?”

Murdock thought for a minute, pursing his lips, before he answered. “Not exactly. It’s not only hearing. I use all of my senses. Some of the soldiers I met at Valley Forge could do something like what I do. They could sense things like walls when they got close to them. They called it ‘facial vision.’ I can sense things in much the same way, but I’m better at it. My hearing’s better, much better. And my other senses are sharper, too. I get a lot of information from them – the movements of air currents, temperatures, tastes and odors in the air, things like that. It all fits together with what I hear to tell me what I need to know.”

“What do they tell you?” Wolfe asked.

“It’s hard to explain. I just know things.” 

“Like what?”

“I know you prefer Remmers beer.”

“That’s how you knew to ask for a Remmers, the first time you were here,” I interrupted.

Murdock nodded. “Yes. Remmers uses a special variety of hops in their brew. I recognized their taste and aroma in the air.” Then he continued. “I know Mr. Wolfe repotted some of his orchids this afternoon. I know Mr. Goodwin took a drink of rye whiskey shortly before I arrived. I know both of you had shad roe for lunch. When Fisk was here, and I was in the adjoining room, I heard every word of your conversation through the wall, in spite of the soundproofing.” He fell silent then, apparently listening to something only he could hear. “I know this is making Mr. Goodwin uncomfortable, because I can hear his heartbeat.”

“You can hear people’s heartbeats?” I blurted out, shocked.

Murdock nodded. “Yes. They tell me if someone is lying or angry or afraid, and they help me anticipate behavior, like when someone’s going to attack.” He paused for a moment, inclining his head toward Wolfe. “There is an irregularity in your heartbeat, Mr. Wolfe.”

“Yes, I know,” Wolfe told him. “A slight murmur, a remnant of a bout of rheumatic fever when I was a child. My physician says it’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Murdock nodded, as if he knew that, too. Then he asked, “Have I answered your questions?” He started to get to his feet.

“Yes,” Wolfe replied. “But I have one more question, if you will indulge me.”

Murdock sank back into the red leather chair. He didn’t look happy, but he nodded his head.

“The newspapers often speak of Daredevil’s prowess as a fighter. Did you learn those skills from your late father, the boxer?”

A look I couldn’t decipher crossed Murdock’s face. Then he smiled, a little sadly, it seemed to me. “No,” he said. “My father didn’t want me to be like him. He wanted me to make my living with my brains, not my fists. But after he was killed and I was sent to St. Agnes, an old blind man named Stick showed up at the orphanage. The sisters thought they found him, but in reality, he found me. He showed me that my blindness isn’t a handicap, and that sight is a distraction. From him I learned how to control my ‘gifts,’ as he called them, and how to use them. And he taught me how to fight.”

“He sounds like an exceptional man,” Wolfe observed.

“That’s one way to describe him,” Murdock replied dryly.

“I should like to meet him.”

“You can’t. He’s dead.”

“A pity,” Wolfe said.

“Not really,” Murdock muttered under his breath. Plainly, there was more to the story than he was telling, but Wolfe decided – wisely, in my opinion – not to pursue it.

Murdock finished the last of the beer in his glass and got to his feet. “If there are no further questions, I should be going,” he said. “I have to argue a motion in the morning, and I need to finish preparing.” He started toward the door, taking two steps before Wolfe’s voice stopped him.

“Mr. Murdock.” The lawyer turned to face him. “One more thing. You may be questioning whether your secret is safe, now that Mr. Goodwin and I know it. I give you my word that neither Mr. Goodwin nor I will disclose your identity.”

Murdock didn’t know it, but Wolfe’s word was good, as good as gold.

Murdock inclined his head toward Wolfe. “I believe you,” he said before he turned back toward the door and walked out of the office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a story of a Nero Wolfe case that Archie wrote but didn’t publish. True to their word, neither he nor Wolfe ever disclosed Daredevil’s identity.
> 
> The U.S. Supreme Court’s opinion in _Brown v. Board of Education_ , the landmark school desegregation case, was handed down in May 1954. The televised Army-McCarthy hearings began in April 1954.
> 
> The American Foundation for the Blind is the organization that helped Charlie Cox prepare for the role of Matt Murdock/Daredevil in the Netflix TV series.


End file.
